


Shadows fell, dawn's not here.

by Fleshwerks



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 01:05:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13202406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fleshwerks/pseuds/Fleshwerks
Summary: Fooltofancy's Herald, Sehren Lavellan, and my Spiridon Lavellan share a moment during the survivors' trek to Skyhold after Haven's fall. Companion AU for Spiridon Lavellan.





	Shadows fell, dawn's not here.

It had been a week but Sehren still wore bandages around her cold-bitten hands and the mountain winds had cut through her like knives and turned her bones into ice. It didn’t matter how close to the fire she sat or how many furs were surrendered to her by those who could afford to give theirs, she sat under them all, knees hugged tight against her chest and jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Eyes fixed on the flames that had grown more feeble by the day as the survivors tried to conserve what little firewood they managed to carry out of Haven.   
  
And every night after the sun had sunk behind the South’s frozen spine, voices rose from where the Inquisition’s leadership had set up their tent. The Screaming Pavilion, the survivors tending to the less lofty parts of the tattered and tired caravan had begun to call it. What hope the Herald had brought with her from the buried ruins of Haven was running thin as more wounded died each night, and even the healthy had begun to feel the pinch of cold and hunger that faith and hope struggled to sate. Soon they’d be breaking apart wagons that emptied as the bodies they’d carried were buried in the snow along the way.   
  
The assault on Haven had been an utter surprise, and in the chaos so little was carried out of it. Most was burned and buried with the rest of the village and its chantry. Thrown into the merciless storm with what little they could stuff in their packs as everything came crashing down. Some of the more able-bodied had doubled back with some sleds and heavy rams to dig through the snow and see if there was any food to salvage, for what use was Solas’ castle in the mountains save for becoming a mausoleum when they all inevitably ran out of supplies and draught animals to eat before the Inquisition in the lowlands could reach this forgotten nowhere-place.   
  
Just in time, the Screaming Pavilion erupted with shouts, and Sehren sighed. Maybe it made them feel useful, lessen the burrowing, biting idleness. A few ravens had been released earlier with messages tied to their feet, sent to the places where the birds were raised. Then it was waiting and hoping with the night hanging heavy over then all. Sehren chose to fill it with hot honeywater and reliving the fires of Haven in the shy flames of her bonfire. The Advisors howled at each other out of sport as much as concern. And Spiridon Lavellan, the only one she’d known before the sky split open, spent it sleeping near his horses. 

_ Oh my god. _   
  
The horses nickered and jerked their heads up when Spiridon Lavellan sprung up from the nest he’d dug into snow and lined with wood and wool, ears slicked back and his usual lazy expression contorted into a mask of fury.    
  
_ Oh my fucking god,  _ Spiridon uttered again as he scrambled to his feet, eyes on fire.   
  
_ Fifty three minutes, fi--  _ Sehren could make out before she was forced to undo the knot of warmth she’d managed to twist herself into, and stop him from rushing to the Screaming Pavilion, tearing it down and stuffing it down the advisors’ throats.    
  
A day ago, clan had caught some flack for saving his horses instead of food from the storage, but Sehren knew about the horses, where they’d come from and what they meant to the man, and had intervened when a wolfsfoot-soaked argument between him and some others threatened to turn violent.   
  
_ Don’t,  _ Sehren whined now as her fingers reached for the corner of the wool blanket Spiridon had thrown over his shoulder, but snapped shut just short of it.   
  
Spiridon stopped and turned, staring down at the girl in the snow.   
  
_ You want a slap too, clan?  _ He asked, tongue dripping with venom and eyes wide with cold frenzy.    
  
Sehren tucked her exposed hand in her armpit for warmth, then pulled it out again to shove it in the crook of her knee, as if it ever helped.   
  
_ If you go in that tent and start shouting too, I’m gonna slap you,  _ Sehren answered.  _ Tickle your chin I guess, maybe. Whatever. Sit down,  _ she muttered and shuffled closer to the fire to take the small kettle off the heat.   
  
_ Drink with me,  _ she said.  _ I’ve got honey piss. _ _   
_ _   
_ __ Choke on it,  Spiridon snapped but from the corner of her eye he caught him stalling.    
  
A part of her wanted him to go through with it. Blow on the flames, make it burn itself out. Go. Bellow at them, they’ll shit their pants.   
But from the corner of her eye he could see his shoulders slacken and his gaze wander. He was a good warrior, always falling in line when told to, bile at the back of his throat, fingertips twitching, the last of the wind knocked out of him with words, even if they did tumble from her tongue with neither grace nor ferocity. A pang of guilt struck somewhere in her gut. Somewhere along the way hunter and warrior had become commander and subject. Caught between fury and soldier-like servitude, Spiridon Lavellan had realised the same, ears moving in confusion until they didn’t, and he abandoned his war path with a meek but bitter headshake.    
  
Is this what it was going to be like? It was good to be listened to. It was terrifying. The survivors had sung to her, it had already begun. She beckoned him to her side, shoulders slouched and mouth drawn into an uncomfortable smile. It was an offer of companionship, but she couldn’t help but think that if command was what the future held, would friends turn into subordinates? Would they sit with her and share drink with her because they wanted to, or because they had to? Overthinking, she told herself as Spiridon sat down next to her, not looking at her. But what if?   
  


She gestured at the kettle now cooling in the trodden snow, but Spiridon dismissed it and procured a small bottle with clear fluid.   
  
_ I thought we’d run out,  _ Sehren remarked.   
  
_ No. Everybody’s just hiding theirs. Including Boone and Doub. Fuck with my horses though and I’ll rob you blind,  _ Spiridon said and pulled the cork off with his teeth, spat it in his palm and drank it straight. Sehren frowned at his skinned knuckles.   
  
_ Fuckin’ Doub,  _ Spiridon muttered into the bottle. 

 

A sore silence fell between them, and Sehren realised that the Screaming Pavilion had gone quiet.   
  


Solas had told her that it was a week’s worth of hiking. Should’ve been by geography, could’ve been had it not been the tail end of winter, would’ve been, gods willing, but woulda, coulda, shoulda were demons, and the spirit of hope tattered and waned in the cutting winds.   
  
Someone at the far side of the camp tried to pick up a tune. Some song of kings at first, then the Chant, but it died in the singer’s throat.   
  
The forward scouts had not yet arrived with the news of this… Skyhold.   
  



End file.
